“To search far⁠ ⁠…” repeated the count, evidently sorry Semën had not said more. “To search far,” he said, turning back the skirt of his coat to get at his snuffbox.

“The other day when he came out from Mass in full uniform, Mikháil Sidórych⁠ ⁠…” Semën did not finish, for on the still air he had distinctly caught the music of the hunt with only two or three hounds giving tongue. He bent down his head and listened, shaking a warning finger at his master. “They are on the scent of the cubs⁠ ⁠…” he whispered, “straight to the Lyádov uplands.”